when i die, let me stay here.

i don't even know what to say. i thought people were inspired to create when faced with difficult times: sadness, loneliness, frustration, betrayal...i believe that most are. i, unfortunately, am not one of those people. when i am feeling any one (and oft times more) of these emotions, i am practically a ghost. i just exist, only mustering enough energy to keep on waking each morning, to keep staring blankly at that stark white wall. maybe inspired to create is not what i mean. it's more so the use of creative outlets as a means of catharsis. i don't know how that works. i wish so much that i could paint my emotions, or sing them away. and no amount of pages written here or anywhere could rid me of the pain. when i am feeling the weight of life, my choice is rather to do absolutely nothing. perhaps it's just the masochist within that sees this as prime opportunity to wallow and make me sick with my own thoughts, as they fester, dull, and resurface yet again.

still _______.

someone please stop me from setting the consulate ablaze.